


Wrap Me Up In Ribbons

by iliveinfantasies



Category: Ghostbusters (2016), Ghostbusters - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, For Me, Holtzbert - Freeform, Jillian Holtzmann Has ADHD, Mental Health Issues, Sensory disorder, Slow Burn, Synesthesia, also kinda faster burn than usual though, and a, and it became a chapter fic, neuroatypical, this was supposed to be a one-shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:49:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8210801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iliveinfantasies/pseuds/iliveinfantasies
Summary: "[Holtzmann] knows, she always knew, that Erin’s brain is just not-quite-the same, not like theirs, at all."In which Erin doesn't realize that her brain works just a little differently from everyone else's, and Holtzmann has known all along, and loves her for it.Slow-burn Holtzbert, but as always, that is the endgame.The fic and chapter titles are from "Ribbons," by Ingrid Michaelson.





	1. I Can See You Falling Like a Homemade Kite

**Author's Note:**

> So, okay. First off, BIG THANKS to Lysippe for all of her help, and for being my best beta-reader ever. Also, this was SUPPOSED to be a one-shot, but then suddenly it was 2000 words long, and still going, so I chose to split it into chapters.
> 
> Second, in this fic, I headcanon Erin Gilbert as having a mild form of synesthesia. Associative synesthesia, to be precise. Because I only know personally about the types I experience myself, my Erin associates colors to numbers, letters, words, etc. And also sometimes "feelings" to these things, such as personalities, or sensations.
> 
> My Holtzmann has a form of HDHD, and also some kind of sensory disorder, which is part of why the yellow glasses.
> 
> It is slow-burn, but not as slow-burn as usual for me, and, as always, endgame Holtzbert. If you have any questions or comments, at all, about synesthesia, please feel free to ask me about it. I am not shy about it, and it's not a well known neurological abnormality to a lot of people.
> 
> Come visit me on Tumblr at iliveinfantasylife. Thanks, all!

Every morning, coffee in hand, Erin stands at her whiteboard on the second floor by the window. And soon the coffee is forgotten as equations fall lightly from her fingers, color coded and moving, coming together to create complex patterns that don't exist yet. Because Newton's Law is brittle and dusty, like parchment, and the quadratic equation is a complex myriad of colors, like a Pollock painting, and sometimes, Erin gets so engrossed in that world, engrossed in the sheer _life_ of the numbers and patterns and colors and sounds that it's easy for her to get lost.

 

And every morning, Holtzmann pulls on her goggles, because the world is just a little too _bright_ and too _loud_ and they dull the searing shine of the world to a far more manageable glow. She depresses the ‘play’ button on her ancient boom box and runs the burnt pads of her fingertips along the roughly nicked grooves of her screwdrivers, and as her body moves in time to the music (whether _with her_ or _in spite of her_ is up for debate), and she looks up at Erin working, and she swears she can _see_ the cogs of Erin’s brain turning in her head. And warmth floods her body, sharp and jolting, because she knows that that’s just part of how the two of them understand each other.

 

When the situation first arose, Abby said that the reason Erin and Holtzmann ended up on the same floor was because they were running out of room on the first floor, what with Abby’s experiments and Patty’s ever-growing book collection and Kevin’s tendency to practice his favorite hide-and-seek moves (“Kevin, how do you _practice_ hide-and-seek?” “You practice hiding and seeking, boss,”). So even though Holtzmann’s things take up more room than Agent Roarke’s ego (well, almost—nothing is quite _that_ big), Abby points out that all Erin requires is a desk and a whiteboard and a pack of new Expo markers and she is good to go. And so Erin takes her equations upstairs, a collection of perfectly ordered white board markers and sheaves of notebook paper, and becomes Holtzmann’s floor mate.

But despite what Abby said, Holtzmann knows that the real reason they work together is because they both work with similar purpose, both have a tendency to fall so far into their worlds of numbers and machines that it is easy to get lost. Because they don’t need to talk; they can gauge each other’s moods in intensity levels, like earthquakes on a richter scale, and that’s how they understand the way their tide moves.

 

One night, during a dinner of cheap pizza and even cheaper wine, they all fall just-past-drunk and begin to talk over each other in loud, open voices. And they are all more than a little buzzed, and Erin shares her research in a hurried voice, eyes sparking, hands flying, as though propelling the words forward with her finders. Drops of wine slosh lazily over the sides of her cup as she moves, and with every word—and every sip—her eyes spark just that much more.

And Holtzmann stays quiet, presses her own cup to her lips and watches, for once. Because the way Erin speaks, now, the way her words fall, the way ideas pour out of her mind-like-rain, is one of the most beautiful things Holtzmann has ever seen.

“And I _know_ ,” Erin says, flinging wine across the desk, “Because Ohm’s law became the most beautiful shade of blue, and…”

And she stops, trails off, as the rest of them grow quiet and still.

Abby shoots Erin a concerned look, and Patty shakes her head, patting Erin lightly on the shoulder.

“Erin, baby, you might wanna lay off the wine for a while.”

And Erin goes quiet, too, a light tinge of pink staining her cheekbones. Her eyes go wide, and she covers it well, but Holtzmann sees the sheer, terrified shock that flashes over them before they sink into a hollow blackness. Erin puts down her wine glass and fixes her face into a placid smile before laughing lightly at the group of them.

“Oh, I was just _joking_ ,” she says, with a small scoff. “ _Blue equations._ I mean, come on.”

And Abby gives Erin a doubtful look but lets it go, and Patty rolls her eyes, saying “That is _not_ a funny joke.”

But Holtzmann sees the fissures begin to grow, sees the subtle cracks behind her eyes, watches the spark dull into a slightly smoking ember. And she knows, she _always knew_ , that Erin’s brain is just not-quite-the same, not like theirs, at all. And she watches, heart compressing painfully in her chest, as one of the most beautiful, brilliant minds she has ever seen, goes dark.


	2. I'm Not Flying, I'm Not Flying Am I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And Erin almost smiles, almost, but moisture gathers on her lashes and the emptiness becomes anguish and her voice croaks a broken, 'Why can’t I just be normal?'"
> 
> Or, the one where Holtzmann's heart breaks just a little bit more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the short chapter. But those of you who write know, sometimes chapters write themselves beginnings and endings, no matter how long they are.
> 
> ALSO, thank you for such a lovely response to the first chapter! For those who have more questions about synesthesia, or Erin's form of it, the specific types I see her as having are primarily grapheme-color, and spacial sequence. I only have one of those types, along with another that I don't think fits Erin quite as well, but those seem appropriate for our cinnamon roll.
> 
> And thanks again to Lysippe for being the both the best beta ever, ever.
> 
> As always, come see me at iliveinfantasylife. I like making friends.

Later that night, Holtzmann heads up the stairs toward her third-floor bedroom to find the shadowy shape of Erin, face inches from her white board, staring fixedly at an equation in front of her. And in the light of the single desk lamp illuminating her corner of the room, she looks hunched and haggard, a diminutive silhouette in a vast wall of shadow.

And Holtzmann stands in the doorway, punch-drunk on cheap wine and pounding heartbeats, twirling a screwdriver over her fingers, watching Erin watch nothing at all. And perhaps it’s the alcohol clouding her vision, but it takes Holtzmann a moment to realize what Erin is staring at. But when she does, her stomach rolls in a way that she is _almost_ sure has nothing to do with the alcohol, and her heart contracts for the second time that night.

That morning, the board had been filled with marks and movements, equations and theories shifting spaces in odd circles and the shapes of a language that only Erin could understand. Now, a large circle of that had been erased. Weeks worth of work, of agonizing over individual operators, of pacing the same 2.3 square feet of space on the floor while Holtzmann stabbed and soldered and occasionally juggled blowtorches (which, to her credit, she only dropped one time), had been wiped out and replaced by a single equation: Ohm’s law, written in thick, black pen, across the empty space.

And Holtzmann is not completely certain, could never quite be sure, but she is almost positive that Erin is starting at the equation, willing it to be the way it is _supposed_ to be instead of the way she _sees_ it.

And it’s this thought, and the sheer wash of horror that Holtzmann feels from this notion that gets her to move her feet off the landing and over to Erin’s desk, coming up next to her by the board. But Erin just stares, glassy-eyed and unmoving, and Holtzmann just _cannot handle_ the silence and she _cannot handle_ the way the air feels pressing against her chest so she opens her mouth to speak.

And she suspects that she probably shouldn’t try, because she’s never been good at words, because what she wants to say is _it’s perfect_ and what she wants to say is _it’s not like others but neither are you_ , but the alcohol (approximately 0.0973% by her guess) gets there first, and instead what comes out is, “Don’t worry, you’re just as sane as I am.”

And Erin almost smiles, almost, but moisture gathers on her lashes and the emptiness becomes anguish and her voice croaks a broken, “Why can’t I just be _normal?”_

And though the question is barely a whisper, it feels unbearably _loud_ , a shot in the night. And the sheer pain in those words, the raw, guttural hurt, shoots through Holtzmann’s heart like a bullet.

And Holtzmann doesn't quite understand, because normal is the last thing in the world she would want to be. Because normal is sitting in cubicles in tight suits, filling out forms and flashing well-worn fake smiles, writing physics on paper instead of feeling the pleasure of how it flows in the air. And normal doesn't ever, ever describe anything beautiful in the world—including Erin Gilbert.


	3. You Look so Pretty in the Dark of Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holtzbert begins to form. Erin pretends nothing happened. Holtzmann tries to get Erin to talk. Erin still pretends nothing happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mannn, this chapter killed me, seriously. It was rough. I think I have a super hard time writing fluff, so the middle part was tricky for me. I hope that everything translated, and that you all enjoy it!
> 
> Usual disclaimer: come visit me on Tumblr at iliveinfantasylife.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Over the coming weeks, Erin spends a generous amount of time not talking about what happened, and an even greater amount of time pretending it never did.

 

One evening, long after Abby and Patty go to bed for the night, the numbers begin to run together and the circuit boards start to waver in Holtzmann’s vision and she looks over to see Erin visibly wobbling in place at her desk. And Holtzmann has never been a very big drinker, but she knows that Erin’s need for alcohol is greater and more frequent than even she realizes. So Holtzmann reaches down and pulls out two beers from their hiding spot between several large bottles of liquid nitrogen (it was more practical than having to trek downstairs), and brandishes them in front of Erin with a flourish, and announces, in no uncertain terms, that “it is time for a _break, Doctor Gilbert.”_

And though Erin insists that she’s minutes away from a _breakthrough_ (she sways harder and nearly drops her pen) she reluctantly allows herself to be pulled over to to the overstuffed, slightly singed couch in the corner of their shared workspace (Erin had insisted on one, after the fifth or sixth time she found Holtzmann asleep on top of a highly radioactive piece of equipment, though when Holtzmann had dragged this one in from a particularly fortuitous day at the dump, Erin insisted that the couch had “not been what she had in mind.”).

And though Erin grumbles at Holtzmann about _definitely not needing a break_ , a tiny, almost inaudible sigh escapes Erin’s lips when she finally sits down (at least, Holtzmann is pretty sure—she is more acquainted with Erin’s sighs then she would like to admit). Holtzmann hands Erin one of the beers, some local-wheat-ale-thing that Erin had mentioned liking one time at the bar (and Holtzmann had _definitely not_ taken note of that), and as Erin sips, she leans lightly into Holtzmann, gently pressing her shoulder into Holtzmann’s own.

And Holtzmann doesn’t quite know what it means, and she doesn’t really care, because the feeling of Erin’s goosebump-laden skin pressing into her own is something she doesn’t have the fortitude to question. So they sit there, pressed up against each other in the just-chill of the very early morning (the sort of chill that moves beyond the skin and seeps slowly into your bones), and Holtzman tries to coax Erin into revealing the way the world works. Because though Holtzmann knows that Erin wants that aspect of her brain to shut down completely, the way Erin sees the world is _indescribably imperfect_ , like newly formed scars and unfinished equations and half-blown daisies.

But to Erin now, it’s just another blight on her record, an ugly bruise beneath her skin, and she refuses every time.

 

One afternoon, at approximately 4:38 pm, Holtzmann finally completes the proton shotgun. She tweaks the last screw, solders the very last joint, then holds up the gun in the air above her head. She lets out a cry, something between a whoop and a howl, and Erin jumps, startled, nearly taking out her half-full coffee mug in the process.

“HOLTZ!” she barks, voice slightly strained, eyes wide.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?”

And Holtzmann winks, grinning toothily, and gives the shotgun a little shake above her head.

“It’s doooonnnneeeee,” she sing-songs, bopping her head along to the music quietly issuing from her boom box. She plops it back down on her worktable, crying “BOO-ya!” and cranks up the music, until the raucous beat of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” is filling the entire lab.

And the mock-stern expression on Erin’s face melts away, and she laughs, deep and throaty, lips forming that nose-wrinkled grin that makes Holtzmann’s heart feel like it’s flipping in her chest. Holtzmann dances her way across the floor to Erin’s desk, thrusting her hips with every step, and grabs Erin’s hand. Erin hangs back for a moment, shaking her head, holding out her hand in protest.

“Erinnnnnnnn,” Holtzmann sings, dancing backwards, wiggling her eyebrows, making “come hither” motions with her fingers. “Come dance with meeeee.”

Erin rolls her eyes, still laughing, but eventually gives in.

They make their way to the center of the lab, twirling and moving and hip-thrusting to the beat. And Erin is shoving her arms into the air jerkily, and Holtzmann is bopping her head to the beat, and Erin’s laughs are light and floaty in a way Holtzmann hasn’t heard in months, and it smells like sweat and metal and lavender shampoo, and Holtzmann is pretty sure that she has never quite known happiness until right this moment.

 

One evening, during another night of overhyped beer and overworked minds, Holtzmann tries again. She waits until the second beer before asking, phrasing it like a casual comment.

“What do you see when you look at numbers?”

Holtzmann has never been good at casual.

Erin stiffens at once beside her, lifting her legs up and off of Holtzmann’s lap, straightening to a seated position.

“I see numbers, Holtzmann,” she says, her voice flat and grey. _“Just like everyone else.”_

Erin almost hisses this last part, as though it is the only phrase that matters, has ever mattered.

And Holtzmann’s legs feel cold where Erin lifted hers off of them, and she misses the touch immediately, even though she wishes she didn’t.

So she sucks in her breath, and presses down the sharp, jittery feeling forcing its way up her stomach, and works her lips into a smile. It isn’t quite her usual grin, she knows, but it’s the _ghost_ of that grin, and that has to be good enough, for now.

She pulls off her goggles, one ear at a time, and thrusts them at Erin with a firm nod. The fluorescent lighting of the lab stares back at her, harsh and blinding and somewhat nausea-inducing, and she fights the urge to bounce her legs in her seat. Erin stares down at the goggles, then back at Holtzmann, then down again. Holtzmann gently presses the goggles into Erin’s hands.

“These,” she says, quietly, far more quietly than she had intended,

“are my eyes.”

And Erin holds the goggles loosely, running a finger absently along the tarnished metal.

“Holtz,” Erin says, shaking her head slightly. “I don’t need glasses. My eyes are fine. I don’t…” she trails off, her voice one long question. Holtzmann shakes her head, too.

“Erin,” she says, more firmly this time. “ _Neither do I.”_ She watches Erin’s expression carefully, waiting for that statement to sink in, and she is not disappointed. She sees the shifting thoughts, and their resulting expressions: curious, confused, thoughtful, confused again.

“I thought…” Erin says, and swallows.

“I thought that you needed glasses to see, and that’s why…”

“You thought I always needed to wear goggles to see? What about the times I _wasn’t_ wearing them?”

Erin shrugs, looking at the goggles in her hands.

“I guess…contacts?”

And Holtzmann almost laughs, despite the heaviness of her heart, the flipping of it in her throat.

“You thought I was capable of putting in contacts? Erin, have you met me?” and she can practically see Erin’s brain begin prepare a haughty retort, so she hurries on.

“No,” she says, more gently now.

“I don’t need them to see, like most people need them to see. I need them…” she huffs, frustrated, running a hand through her already wild bangs. She’s _so bad at words._ She inhales.

“I guess,” she says, picking at the well-worn hem of her fingerless gloves, “that in some ways, you’re actually right. I _do_ need them to see.”

Erin’s face contorts into an even more puzzled expression, eyebrows cocked slightly, forehead wrinkling, one corner of her mouth twitching up.

And it’s too fucking adorable.

Holtzmann bites her lip, and continues.

“I need them to see, because without them, the world is too bright.” She swallows hard, again, looking down. “I can’t handle bright lights very well, I can’t handle things of certain colors, or textures, even, and I find dead silence distracting.” She shrugs, looking up again.

“I need them to read, too. They help me. Reading can be hard for me, at times, and the yellow calms everything down. Helps me focus.” She kicks her feet, absently, tugging at various locks of hair. Her breathing is slightly more erratic than she usually likes it to be, but she presses on anyway.

“Go ahead, Erin,” she says. “Try on my eyes. See how I see the world. And then maybe you can tell me about how you do, too.”

She watches Erin carefully, mapping out Erin’s expression, the flickers of surprise and admiration and fear and—

Anxiety fills Holtzmann’s mouth, her stomach, her throat. She had never told anyone about it, before, except a brief mention to Abby _once_ after quite a lot of tequila. She didn’t talk about how she looked at the world, either, how she _needed_ to look at it to make it more palatable. To invent. To engineer. To think.

“Holtz…” Erin says, her voice cracking slightly. Then she shakes her head. “I _can’t._ ”

 

And though Erin’s eyes flicker with a hopeful light, a sort of tugging around the edges, she says nothing. She just sits,running her long fingers along the metal frames, over and over, as though trying to absorb their power into her own skin. She pulls herself closer to Holtzmann, pressing her forehead into Holtzmann’s shoulder, clutching the goggles to her chest.

 

And Holtzmann knows that someday, perhaps, when the constellations in Erin's head meet the stars in her eyes, the whole world will expand, and reveal itself as the way it was always meant to be.

 

But not today.


	4. But I'm Getting Wise in the Early Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holtzmann wakes up the next morning to a realization. Erin has quite the morning voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So to be honest, I hadn't even planned on writing this chapter? But then it just happened, and apparently I wanted to make Holtzmann struggle a little. Because I'm mean to my cinnamon rolls.  
> This is definitely a Holtzbert-centric chapter, far shorter than I anticipated, so I am sorry about that. Less about Erin's mental state, more about Holtzmann falling for Erin, so I hope that works for y'all.
> 
> Thank you to those who are following this fic! Hoping to update in a little bit.
> 
> Tumblr: iliveinfantasylife  
> Chat me up!

Holtzmann wakes up to the faint beeping of a machine, and the distinct nagging feeling of something not-quite-normal tugging at her brain. No, that isn’t it. Not abnormal Just _different._ She frowns, pushing herself up with the palms of her hands. It smells like smoke and motor oil, acrid and bitter, and she realizes she must have fallen asleep in the lab again. She yawns widely, then pauses. Blinks her eyes a couple of times, and sniffs the air. Smoke, motor oil, electrical discharge. And lavender shampoo. Her breathing quickens, slightly, and she glances across the couch to see the sleeping figure of Erin Gilbert, propped awkwardly against the back couch cushions.

Erin’s hair is half-out of her ponytail, tugging strands across her cheeks. She is drooling lightly on one of the pillows, legs curled underneath her in a way Holtzmann didn’t even know humans could bend. One arm is thrown above her head, bent at the elbow, laying on the back of the couch. The other is resting lightly in her lap, still clutching Holtzmann’s goggles, as though letting go of them would make her fall off of the earth forever. She is awkward and rumpled and so, so _real_ , and Holtzmann’s stomach gives a little jolt at the sight of her there.

And then she remembers the night before, and the jolt becomes an anchor. Her heart starts to sink slowly in her chest. Because though they had both been slightly-buzzed, and though the memories are slightly fuzzy around the edges in the early morning, she remembers giving a part of herself away—and it making no difference, whatsoever.

Her stomach sits heavily in her body, the way it always does when she has rubbed a piece of herself raw, and she presses herself further back into the couch cushions, wishing she could go back to sleep and just forget anything ever happened. _The way Erin is so good at pretending she can do_.

Because though she knows Abby and Patty will be at work within the next hour, and though she knows she should wake up Erin (or at least move her into a better position, because her neck is going to be one giant knot), and though she knows there are at least 6.5 things she could be fixing right now (one thing is only half broken), she can’t make herself move. Because Erin’s face is open, and soft, and her hair is falling in gentile locks around her face, and the place where Holtzmann’s skin meets Erin’s feels like it’s burning, and she wouldn’t give up that feeling, for the world.

 

When Erin eventually wakes up on her own, 17 minutes later, Holtzmann is prepared for the panic. She expects the confused expression on Erin’s face, the rapid shift to anxiety upon seeing the clock. She is unsurprised to hear the panic rise in Erin’s tone as she tears herself off the couch, taking the stairs two at a time, nearly taking out a box of car batteries on her way to the third floor showers.

But Holtzmann is not ready for the timbre of Erin’s morning-voice, dark and slightly chalky, like charcoal after burning. She is not ready for the subtle softness of Erin’s eyes, the light sparks of yellow peeking through the blue, as she presses the goggles gently into Holtzmann’s hands. Not ready for the scent of lavender to be so _overwhelming_ as she stands inches from Erin’s face during this exchange, tendrils of hot breath washing over her skin, rising smoke-signals where they fall.

And Holtzmann wants to tell Erin these things. Wants to let Erin know that she got it all _wrong_ , that it’s not about how she sees the _world,_ but how she sees _Erin_.

But the words are like rice paper on her tongue, brittle and sticky, and within seconds they melt away completely.


	5. You Put Your Sunday Best on For Us All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holtzmann pushed a little too hard, and revealed too much of herself. And now Erin is falling, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO everyone.
> 
> I apologize for taking so long to post this, especially because it's such a short chapter. The good news is, I have another chapter completely written for tomorrow. But it felt weird put together, so, two chapters it is.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has hung in there. This semester of grad school has been KILLER, and it only just ended. It was taking all my brainpower just to make it through.
> 
> As always, thank you SO MUCH for reading, and come find me on Tumblr at iliveinfantasylife

That night, Holtzmann frowns at the goggles on her desk, pressing her clenched fist hard into her chest. Because her great-grand-goggle gesture failed, and now she just feels empty, rubbed raw, as though she’d been pulling ideas-like-burrs directly from her skin. Because she waited too late, and too long, and tricked herself into thinking that exposing herself would be enough to make Erin expose her own mind--her colorful, calculated mind, so very different from Holtzmann's wild wire-tangles. Because she thought she could work Erin like a machine, strip down her wires, pull apart the springs, simply because she _wanted_ to. But people are not machines, synapses are not wires. And now, all she has done is exposed herself to the outside. Taken that space where her hope used to be and opened it, chalk dust and rusty machinery, coating the chasm between her bones.

 

She wonders if that was how Erin felt that night, too.

 

But she has made her move, and there truly is nothing, once you think all of your cards have been played. Now, it’s Erin’s move. Now, all she can do is wait.

 

She really hates waiting.

 

So she throws herself into _engineering_ and _programming_ and _laughing when she is supposed to laugh_ , and the longer she works at it the longer she almost believes she can pretend that she _doesn’t_ see Erin’s eyes painting equations-like-brushstrokes, can pretend she _didn’t_ once wrap her fingers around the sooty metal of her goggles and pull, tearing them off her own face to hand to Erin, as though she was ripping off an actual part of her soul.

And then slowly, with the decrease in late-night beer sessions and mid-morning dance parties, the shortened smiles and blunted gazes, the ease that had fallen lightly over them the last several weeks begins to fade.


	6. Painting Up a Promise That You Know Will Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things tend to get worse before they get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone,  
> I'm sorry, I suck, I know I said that I would have this posted tomorrow. But I came home from work all tired, then fell asleep, and didn't post until now. Anyway, here it is! Hopefully my "writing voice" is in tune enough for you all; I'm worried it's a bit off. But I'm updating anyway.
> 
> Quick note before you all read this: things do get worse in this chapter. But they will start to look up in the next one. Doesn't seem very realistic, though, that things would hit a low then just pop back up to happiness, right?  
> More fun is that I will actually get to write in what it's like to have synesthesia--since so many people have been asking. That's next chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Tumblr: iliveinfantasylife

Sometimes, now, Holtzmann sees Erin in the evenings, catches her eyes raking over numbers, forming equations-like-paintings in the air. And Holtzmann has never been very observant, never about the things that mattered, anyway, but the little things have always suck in her mind like glue, the small quirks and smaller details, the little things that make a person who they are. So she notices when the equations change, realizes thatthey're not Erin's, now, not quite; they're museum paintings, artful surfaces housed under grounded glass, gaze glancing off them like light. That now the mugs are gone, the collection of half-drunk coffee and built up sediment, the ones left long forgotten anytime Erin got one of her "big ideas!" ("Holtz, must you always say it like that?"). That now steam rises up from Erin's cup each morning, casts shapes in the air, yellow tinted and faint in the light. That now, Erin writes her numbers in orderly lines, ruler-marked edges that were never there before; stiff rows with stiffer edges, sharp corners of letters so carefully honed Holtzmann swears they would cut her if she came too close.

And she notices the way that Erin stares at these numbers, hovering in front of them, arm poised in a delicate arc in the air, her expression draped across her face in a half frown, wearing the wrinkled forehead that holtzmann loved, looking at them as though willing them into submission, forcing them to be the way they ought to be.

 

One day, Holtzmann hears a very faint knocking on the lab door. It’s so faint that at first, Holtzmann thinks it might be part of the music. Only, no—the beat isn’t quite there, not quite in time—and Holtzmann is very,  _ very _ aware of these things. She cocks her head, twisting down the volume dial on her boombox, listening intently. There, again. A quick succession of raps, small knuckles on dark wood, soft and sharp and unsure. Holtzmann puts down her soldering iron ( _ not  _ on the pile of flammable liquid, thank-you-very-much), tucks up her goggles into her hair, and bounds toward the door. Confusion washes over her with every step, and her heart rises as she walks. Because she has  _hopes_ ,  knows who she  _ wants  _ it to be, except who would be  _knocking_?

Holtzmann reaches the door, inhaling through her teeth. She wraps her hand around the cool metal, twists, and yanks open the door to reveal Erin, pale-faced, biting her lip, shifting her weight awkwardly from foot to foot.

Holtzmann blinks, confusion settling in even deeper. Because something isn’t right, here. Because Erin’s eyes are wide, and a little wild, and the sharpness of her gaze cuts tiny slices straight into Holtzmann’s heart.

Yes, she knows something is off. Knows something is wrong. But she’s never been good with words.

So though she knows it’s the wrong answer, though she knows the tightness of Erin’s lips mirrors the tightness of her chest, can feel the band of anxiety wrapping around both of their lungs, she simply winks at Erin, flings the door open, and gestures around the room with a wide smile.

“Gilbert!” she cries, in a voice that sounds just-too-shaky to hear ears. She hopes Erin doesn’t notice. She hopes Erin does notice.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Then she drops her face into a mock-serious expression, leaning in to speak conspiratorially into Erin’s ear.

“Now, I don’t know if you know this, Erin.” She can feel the closeness of Erin’s cheek, smell the scent of slightly-stale coffee and Expo marker on Erin’s hair. She swallows, quickly. Wills her heart to beat in time. She continues.

“You don’t actually have to knock on the door  _ to your own lab _ .”

Erin doesn’t laugh, and Holtzmann doesn’t really expect her to. But the corners of her mouth twitch up, and that tiny, minute success is more than enough. Erin keeps her eyes turned downward, trained on a single spot on the floor, ringing her hands together so tightly that her knuckles begin to form tiny white-splotches under the skin.

Holtzmann waits, exhales. The tension between them stretches, tugs at them as the room grows brighter, electricity working its way through the walls, pulling, fraying the ends of her nerves like ropes until they break apart completely. The overhead light feels blinding now, the buzzing in the air just a little too loud, as though she can hear every single molecule that makes up the atmosphere. She resists the urge to pull on her goggles. Waits.

 

She really hates waiting.

 

But she just  _ stands _ there, rocking on her heels, hands in her pockets, biting her lip, tiny pieces of dried skin flaking off beneath her teeth. The silence feels thick in her mouth, sharp and heavy,settling like sawdust on her tongue, squeaking between her teeth.

 

Because the moment was  _just_ there , coursing currents with the electricity.

 

Because Erin has seen her  _eyes_.

 

But this time, like every time, now, Erin lets her knuckles go. Casts her eyes downward, again, plasters on a smile.

 

“It’s dinner time," she says, that same horrible, plastic smile widening into an almost-grimace. Holtzmann wants to wipe it away, brush off like a chalk-dust-equation. "Would you like anything?”

 

And even though it’s the first real sentence Erin has said to her in weeks, even though Erin has finally lifted her eyes to meet Holtzmann’s own, Holtzmann feels a rough burning begin in her chest, like coals beneath her bones. Because with every tick of Erin’s smile, Holtzmann can see her soul draining, just a little bit more, streaming in droplets, seeping into the floorboards, soaking through her skin.

So though Holtzmann can sense the way the question is  _ just there _ , filling the space between them like shadows, she doesn’t push it.

 

Because she knows, can see in the way the sparks have settled, glazed into smooth, glass sheets behind her eyes, that Erin is already gone.


End file.
